


Control

by DaughterOfMurder



Category: markiplier - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 14:57:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10879176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaughterOfMurder/pseuds/DaughterOfMurder
Summary: The Host takes control of a writer and is a bit of a judgy jason but that's okay





	Control

She sat peacefully, the familiar blank white slate sprawled before her a welcoming sight. The soft tap of key after key echoed about the darkened room, candles spread across the room wafting mismatched smells the only other source of light behind the screen. She is lying, The Host plans to claim control over this plain again soon, but at the moment dragging the flying fingers away from their desired keys was amusing enough for him. Her eyes narrowed at the words appearing before her, the ones she did not intend to write but had manifested themselves regardless. This fellow writer is too weak, but The Host can respect her appreciation for pathetic fallacy considering that the room she currently sat in was not set like she had described. There were candles but none lit, the tapping of keys did not echo, rather they were masked by the sound of dogs barking and the house settling around her. Even the time was a façade, it was barely past 4pm, the bedroom light brightening the room where the sun could not reach. But no, she was not pleased with this description, it didn’t invoke the same essence of wonder that she had intended. Her indecisive hands hovered about the backspace button far too often for The Host, you must commit to your story and nurture it. If the writer had been standing she would have taken a step back, but in her current position an almost offended huff was all that could be mustered. Apparently, she does love her stories, creating and moulding them into something the rest of the world could appreciate alongside her pride. Oh, so now The Host in his control is making this weak writer sound pathetic and egotistical.

She closed her laptop softly, the image of The Host’s figure still echoing behind her eyelids with every blink, remembered as soon as he had almost been forgotten. Her bare feet fell quietly upon the tiles as she made her way to a small kitchen, the cupboards barely containing the necessities with their limited space. Slouching against the counter as she listened to the kettle boil, potential lines running through her head faster than she could comprehend, occasionally a particular one would stick and be stored for later use. Honestly, she was lying to herself every time one of those moments occurred, every perfect line that she conjured away from a pen or keyboard and vowed to recall at a later time was destined to disappear. Unfortunately, the best phrases, the most poetic and symbolic, would always be the ones forgotten and leaving all creations outside her mind somewhat…lacking.

Steam rose steadily from the kettle, the young writer making herself a tea to return to her room with. Personally, The Host preferred coffee but tea was satisfactory as well, however he did not approve of the two sugars and significant amount of milk that contaminated her comforting beverage. The original flavour had all but been destroyed by her preferences, but disapproving of beverage choices was not the task at hand. The Host straightened in his own seat and smiled ever so slightly at his own plans.

Each word fell from his lips like a woven dagger, curiously dangerous as they manipulated the being he envisioned before him. She had an almost petite figure but something about her silhouette was reminiscent of fierce warriors, the slightest hint of her bloodlines manifesting in her movements. Her hair had been pulled back into a bun with vibrant strands falling about haphazardly, she pulled it out, the mass falling gently upon her back. Carefully pulling the knots apart she realised she had no intention of this act, tangled sections of her hair now fell in front of her eyes, obscuring her view and reinforcing the thought that this was not a movement she had made independently.

Shifting the strands behind her ears she stood, striding out of the room and into her front yard, she yearned to change into other clothes but her legs kept walking despite her discomfort in wearing pajamas outside. Her eyes flicked up towards the now darkening sky, watching, waiting. She anticipated something, anything, knowing there was more to the game than this. Still, nothing happened. She stood for ten minutes, unmoving, and still nothing happened. At this point it was beginning to become frustrating, her surroundings were ominous rather than familiar now from her lack of control.

Taking a second to think she came to a reasonable conclusion, she was fighting it and the being controlling her probably wasn’t very fond of that. She was right. The Host enjoyed obedient play things, he didn’t enjoy the chase as much as other people, his pleasure was in the creation of a wonderful story. Unfortunately for his ‘guests’ his stories often starred them and he happened to enjoy immersive action over predictable romance.

With a calm sigh The Host’s newest victim succumbed, almost curious to see what he could come up with. A smile creeped upon his face, today’s plaything could prove quite interesting, he leaned back and stretched his arms with a chorus of pops and cracks. His fingers drifted back down, trailing across the letters of their home and began typing with skillful ease and ill intentions.

 


End file.
